


Lines

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2010-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle wakes up in a warehouse to find himself injured, suffering from amnesia, and apparently involved in a bombing plot with a man named Foster.  He soon meets Williams--a tall, dark, beautiful (and engagingly modest) mercenary arms dealer.  Doyle tries to find out who he is, what's going on, and why he instinctively trusts Williams, even though he clearly shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines

"Wake up."  The voice was insistent; a hand gripped his arm.

"Bodie."  His own voice was little more than a whisper.  The world span around him.

"Damn you. Wake _up_."  The touch grounded him as the voice did not.  He opened his eyes in a dimly lit room.  It seemed to be a large space, nearly empty of furniture. He was lying on his side on a hard floor.

"Are you there?  Come on, move it."  A man tugged on his arm, and then he was dragged to his feet. He couldn't stifle a groan as pain exploded in his head. He put a hand to his head and felt wetness—blood. 

"Wh—what?"  He looked around, tried to focus.  There were two lumps on the floor.  He concentrated on the closer of the two lumps, and his stomach lurched—it was the body of a man. There were two bodies in the room.

"Can't you hear the fucking sirens?" The man had light-coloured hair and wore a dark jacket. He gestured towards a table strewn with bits of metal and wire. "Get that stuff. Move it, damn you, or—" The feeble light glinted off the gun in the man's hand.

He stumbled to the table, his steps uncoordinated. "Easy…o—kay." The bits and pieces were fuses, timer components, tools. He tried to be careful as he put them into a bag, but his hands were clumsy.

The man retrieved a thick envelope from the closer body, then returned to the table, grabbed the bag, and pushed him towards the door. "We've got to get out of here!"  He put the gun into his jacket pocket.

They passed the second body near the door. It was a policeman—a young man. His breath caught as his stomach heaved, but he was jerked away and shoved through the doorway, down stairs. They appeared to be in some sort of warehouse—from the smell, it was near the river. 

"Williams is here for the meet. He can take us. What the hell happened?" 

He grabbed hold of the stair rail and stopped.  "I don't—"

"Bloody copper must've surprised you." 

Had he? He remembered a flash of light, shouting—

"Move, damn you. There's no time!"

The man pushed him down the rest of the stairs, and he concentrated on staying on his feet.  His vision was still not clear; the pounding in his head was nearly unbearable.  They arrived on the street at last.

"There he is."

He peered through the twilight and saw another man standing beside a battered white van parked on the street. The man took a step forward as they approached.  He was just above medium height, dark-haired, dressed in a grey leather jacket and jeans.  He frowned at them.  "What happened?" 

The question seemed directed at him. He stared at the man, but he couldn't say anything. Christ, his head hurt.

"Police. We're going with you," the first man said. 

The voice seemed far away, yet suddenly there were hard fingers around his arm.

"Hang on. I'm not in the transport business, Foster."

He pulled away from the grip, stumbled against the van. He closed his eyes as the world started spinning again. He thought he might throw up.

"You won't get paid at all if they catch us." The van door squeaked as it was opened. "Come on, Duncan, what's the matter with you?"

"Here." There was a hand on his arm again, but it steadied him. He opened his eyes. He was outside, on a street. The sun was going down. "Ray?" The voice in his ear was soft, concerned.

"Yeah," he tried to say, but it came out more like a grunt. He turned his head and saw blue eyes. The man was wearing a grey jacket. He looked familiar…. The van driver. Right. He allowed himself to be guided into the van. The man from the warehouse followed him onto the bench seat, closing the door behind him. The driver reappeared on the other side of the van, settled behind the wheel, and started the engine.

"That's a bullet wound, Foster." The driver stared at him, brows furrowed.

He turned away, looked at the blond man—Foster?

"And there are two dead bodies back there. Just get us the fuck out of here!"

The van moved forward down a narrow street. When he closed his eyes, the nausea was worse. He breathed deeply, tried to get his thoughts in order, but they scattered like leaves in wind.

"If they see us—"

"Shut up and let me drive. You're going to owe me for this." 

They were running from the police, weren't they?  One of the bodies had been a policeman And Foster—was that the name?—had brought him out of the warehouse. Foster knew him. He had to be part of— It felt as if acid was burning his stomach. The van took a sudden, abrupt turn. He slid towards Foster, overcompensated, and hit his head against the back of the seat. He stifled a cry as darkness closed in on him. The sound of the men's voices faded, then gradually became more distinct.

"…take you somewhere I know."

"Why?"  There was suspicion in...what was the name?  He couldn't remember. Couldn't—

"Because I need the money, that's why.  But I'm not running any suicidal risks.  You go to my place or I drop you now—and take the merchandise."

"All right, all right."

"You said two bodies?"

"Ramsey and a bloody copper."

"Fuck. What are you into, Foster?"

"Just drive, Williams. You'll get your money."

"I'd better."  The second man's voice was grim.

The men fell silent. Foster. Williams.  Ram…Ramsey. They were just names. He couldn't put faces to them. He had no feelings about them. He tried to think back to the warehouse but his mind skittered away, out of control. It was presenting him with images he couldn't interpret. He was breathing too fast. It wasn't safe to panic—had to slow it down. 

 _Stay cool_.  There was a sudden voice in his head—an echo he couldn't identify. Yet it helped.

Calm down. Think. Go back. He was…. He was…. Oh, Christ. He didn't know his own name.  He—  _Ray?_ He clamped his mouth shut, tasting blood as he bit through skin.  The driver, Williams, had called him Ray. Ray. He was Ray. He was in…London. He knew that. He was…was…. Everything else was a blank. Fuck, fuck. Oh, God. _Stay cool._ He took in a deep breath. He was injured—his head— Concussion?

He opened his mouth to ask them—maybe they'd help— But then he swallowed his words, and stared ahead at the street. Maybe he had known these men, but he didn't remember them. He couldn't trust them. There had been bodies at the warehouse. Foster had a gun. He wasn't safe. He knew that much. 

The van slowed. "Why're you stopping?" It was Foster's voice. Williams parked the van on the street. Ray straightened, forcing himself to pay attention, looking from one man to the other.

"I have to make arrangements," Williams said.

"No."

"Look, it's not like I'm in the police or CI5 or something," Williams said. His leg brushed against Ray's. "I haven't got a safe house I can just take you to."

"What, then?"

"I have a mate who rents flats. No questions asked. I'm going to call him. Take it or leave it."

Foster appeared to be thinking it over, then he glanced at Ray. "All right, but I'm going with you to the phone."

Williams shrugged. "Suits me. I don't want you driving away with the merchandise." He eyed Ray. "He needs a doctor."

"It's just a bloody graze. Let's go." The two men left the van.

Ray leaned back against the seat. He was tired, just wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes. The nausea returned; he felt dizzy. He forced his eyes open. He was in a van—London. His arm was broken—no. It was his head, wasn't it? His head. He carefully felt the side of his head. It hurt, and he felt crusted blood. He'd been injured, then. But…how? He didn't remember what had happened. Didn't remember—

His eyes closed and his head sank until he jerked himself upright. Where—? Van. He had a sudden, flashing memory of the warehouse. Images jumbled in his head—wires, guns, a policeman. He didn't know…didn't know. His name! What was—?"

 _Ray_.

He was Ray. He settled back again. The voice in his head was that of a friend. He needed a…. Voice of a….

"Ray." He gasped, and opened eyes he didn't remember closing. The hand gripping his arm seemed to tremble. He turned his head and saw a man in a grey jacket. "Don't go to sleep." Williams. The man's name was Williams. "Not till we check you out." There seemed to be worry in Williams' blue eyes.

Ray nodded, and Williams let him go.

"You know him?" That was…the other one. Foster, who was climbing into the van. Foster was young, Ray realised—younger than Williams. Younger than he was? He thought so.

"No." Williams started the van.

Foster slammed the door shut. "But you know his name. And you—"

"Blimey, you're a suspicious bugger. He said his name when I was helping him before, all right? He needs help—I don't much fancy carting a body around."

"Just get us off the streets." Foster looked out the window. "There's a bloody copper—"

"Relax. They don't know what to look for."

Ray let their voices recede into the background as he thought back to the warehouse. He'd been unconscious, hadn't he? _That's a bullet wound, Foster._ He'd been—shot. The others must have been as well. He could remember the scene more clearly now; his memory was a bit sharper. One of the bodies had been a policeman. He flexed his hand and imagined a gun in it. Did he know what it felt like to hold a gun? Had he shot the—?

"You had better have the money, Foster."

"I'll pay you.…"

Ray closed his eyes. There was no nausea, but it seemed like there was a roaring in his ears.

"…Not my line…."

"Mercenary—"

He shouldn't sleep. He forced his eyes open again. Christ, his head hurt. What the fuck was he involved in? He remembered putting fuses in the bag at the warehouse. Fuses. Guns. They were running from the police. _He_ was with them. His heart rate increased, and he couldn't seem to draw a deep breath. Cool it He had to stay cool.

"Where are we?" It was Foster's voice.

"Peckham." The van had stopped, Ray suddenly realised. He looked out the windscreen Peckham…southeast…on the way to Greenwich. Yes, he knew London—at least he knew something. They were on a shabby street. Scraggly weeds pushed through the pavement, hugging walls of front gardens and buildings.

"I'll get the stuff." Williams left the van.

Ray took in a steadying breath. Foster opened the van door and climbed out. Ray heard Williams open the back of the van as he eased across the seat to the door. He nearly fell as he stepped from the van.

"Here." Foster grabbed him and let go. "Snap out of it, Duncan."

Duncan? He stared at Foster.

"Rest will help him. His brain is probably a bit scrambled." Williams closed the van's back door. He was carrying a large suitcase. Foster had the bag from the warehouse.

"Which one is it?" Foster scanned the buildings.

"This way." Williams led them down the street. Ray concentrated on staying upright. He couldn't afford to appear weak. He had to keep his wits about him and hope for something to jog his memory.

 _While you've still got one left to jog._

Ray stumbled, but recovered quickly. The voice was achingly clear in his head. He knew he should know who it was, but the memory was without context or identity. Its resonance faded almost immediately. He frowned as he followed Williams and Foster.

Williams led them to a first floor flat that had a small sitting room. The furniture looked well-used. There was nothing on the walls to break the monotony of the grubby floral wallpaper.

"First aid kit in the kitchen," Williams said, gesturing towards a closed door.

Foster placed his bag on the table, shoved Ray into an arm chair, and headed for the kitchen.

Williams set the suitcase next to the bag, then approached Ray. "Are you all right?" His voice was different—soft, almost solicitous.

Ray nodded, feeling wary. Williams moved with the ease of a man used to defending himself.

Foster returned from the kitchen carrying a first aid kit. "Here. Since you're so keen on it." He handed the kit to Williams, then reached for the suitcase.

"Not so fast. Where's the money?" Williams set the kit down near Ray.

Foster took a thick envelope from his pocket. He tossed it to Williams, then opened the suitcase. Ray's stomach tightened as he identified the contents of the suitcase: plastique. "Beautiful," Foster said, a smile on his face.

"My sentiments exactly." Williams' attention was on the money in the envelope.

"You're up to this, aren't you? Duncan?" Foster's voice turned sharp, and Ray realised he was looking at him.

Williams spoke up first: "He's your bomb-maker, is he?"

"He'd better be." Foster's eyes had narrowed. "That was our deal."

Williams approached Ray. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he turned Ray's head towards the light. "He's got a head wound."

"Oh, brilliant. Can you help him?"

"It's not my concern, is it?" But Williams continued to examine Ray's head. "Definite bump." Ray winced. "Sorry. Likely concussion but no fracture that I can see."

"What if I made it your concern? I'm a man short. Help him, and replace Ramsey on the job."

"I'm a supplier, not a—"

"I can make it worth your while."

"No, you can't." Williams peered at one side of Ray's head, then the other.

"Another five thousand."

Ray stared at Williams, who didn't appear surprised at the amount of money he'd been offered.

"For what?" Williams held a finger in front of Ray's face. "Follow the finger, sunshine." Ray followed the movement of Williams' finger with his eyes.

"One night's work."

"Doing what?"

Ray glanced at Foster, then away.

"Blow a place up."

"Yeah, that was obvious from the plastique. What place?"

"Does it matter?"

Williams straightened and turned towards Foster. "Would I have to leave the country?"

Foster smiled. "Well, I wouldn't recommend staying around, but that's your look out."

"In the service there's a certain kind of op called an Operation Susie." Williams looked at Ray. "Abandoned by your own side; left to fend for yourself. I didn't like them." He looked back at Foster. "It's one of the reasons why I went over to the private side. It's more straight-forward."

"You know I'm good for the money."

"That's not my only concern." Williams put a hand on Ray's shoulder and drew his attention. "Headache? Seeing double? Nausea?"

Ray cleared his throat. "Yeah. No. Sometimes."

"He'll make it." Ray felt Williams' fingers squeeze his shoulder before he lifted his hand. "Why don't you delay?

"No."

"Call whoever is bankrolling—"

"No, I said! It has to be tonight."

"And you need me?" Williams folded his arms.

"Dammit, yes. I need a three-man crew."

"To do what, precisely?"

"Set the explosives."

"That he's going to assemble?" Williams nodded towards Ray.

"Yeah. Unless…." Foster's voice trailed off as he looked at Williams. He raised his eyebrows.

Williams' smile was tight. "That's not my line."

"Look, will you do it?"

"What's your target?"

"Strewth—fine! Barclays' head office, if you must know."

Ray stared at Foster, then looked at Williams.

"Robbery?"

"No. It's a statement. A bloody great statement."

"Are there other targets? Other groups?"

"I'm just buying your services on this job. Tonight."

Williams met Ray's gaze. "Then we'd better get your bomb-maker cleaned up."

"Are you in?" Foster sounded eager. Ray's heart sank.

"For five thousand." Williams turned away. "In advance."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't have it—"

"Then delay."

Foster glared at Williams. "I'll need to make a phone call."

"Good." Williams took hold of Ray's arm. "I'll see to him."

Ray shrugged Williams off as soon as he was on his feet. He walked to the bathroom with Williams following behind. The mirror over the basin showed Ray his reflection. One side of his face was covered in blood. Williams appeared behind him and their eyes met briefly in the mirror. Something sparked deep inside Ray—relief, no doubt. He knew his own face, thank God. He turned away from the mirror too quickly and would have stumbled but for Williams' sudden hold.

"Steady."

He didn't know Williams. There was nothing familiar in the hard face. Yet…. "Who are you?" He didn't even know why he asked.

Williams seemed to hesitate. His gaze flicked towards the door. They could hear Foster's voice, but not the words he was speaking. Williams looked back at Ray and released him. "I'm Williams." He stepped past Ray to the basin. "Having trouble remembering, are you?" He turned the taps on with more force than was necessary. "Bugger." Williams reached for a flannel.

"It's…."

"Confusing?" Williams soaked the flannel. "Told you. It's likely you have a concussion. It'll pass." He handed the flannel to Ray.

Ray washed the blood from his face, then allowed Williams to settle him on the toilet.

Williams used the flannel to clean Ray's head. "Looks like a bullet creased you."

Ray flashed onto the sight of the bodies in the warehouse.

"Bad thought?"

"A copper was killed." He winced as Williams pressed harder.

"That's what Foster said. Ramsey was killed, too. What happened?" Williams put the flannel in the basin.

He didn't remember Ramsey. None of this felt right—it was as if he'd gone down the rabbit hole. He managed a shrug. "Copper surprised us."

"I'll bet." Williams ran water over the flannel, his eyes on his hands. "Can you do the job?. Make the bombs?"

Christ. His mind reeled. "You said…implied I could."

"Yeah, well. Foster doesn't strike me as the stable type, if you know what I mean."

He suddenly remembered the way Foster had waved the gun around in the warehouse. And that memory triggered others—from the warehouse, he supposed, although he couldn't be certain. His mind was like a wayward kaleidoscope. He could make little sense of the images that flashed through his brain.

Williams touched him on the shoulder, and brought him back to the present. "You'll be fine. Just take it slow and easy, eh?'

"Yeah." He gazed at Williams, at the rich blue of his eyes. "Thanks."

Williams turned back to the basin. "You believe in this cause, do you?"

Ray froze. What cause? "I…yeah."

"Foster said he'd made you an offer you couldn't refuse."

"Oh. Yes." He rubbed his forehead.

"It's not my business." Williams wrang out the flannel and draped it on the basin. "The point is, you agreed to make the bombs, and Foster is going to hold you to that. So, you play along, right?"

It was almost as if Williams was pleading with him. Ray looked down. Playing along meant blowing up a building—Barclays' head office.

"Ray." Ray raised his eyes to meet Williams'. "Foster is more than willing to kill for his bloody cause. Remember that."

Ray stared at him. He didn't understand Williams. He couldn't make sense of Williams' shifting moods, or his own reaction to the man. He didn't know why, but he thought Williams was hiding something—and yet he believed him about Foster. "You don't trust him but you're going to help him do the job."

Williams' face closed. "I have to."

"Because of the money."

Williams turned towards the door. "Are you ready to go back?"

"Yeah." He pushed himself to his feet, feeling dismayed, almost…betrayed—which made no sense, dammit. Williams was a mercenary; he had to remember that. He followed Williams back to the sitting room. He couldn't make sense of this—his role in it, Williams' mix of concern and cold indifference, Foster's insistence on doing the job. It was like being in a nightmare—everything turning upside down in the blink of an eye. He couldn't trust his own perceptions. He didn't know what to do. _So, you play along, right?_ It seemed sound advice, but was it?

Foster was still on the telephone in the sitting room. "Okay. We'll do our part." Foster hung up the phone.

"Who's that?" Williams asked.

"No one you need worry about." Foster transferred his attention to Ray. "You look better. Are you ready to get to work?"

Ray swallowed, feeling cold. "Yeah." He walked to the table and opened the bag from the warehouse.

"There has been a slight change of plan, however."

Ray looked up at Foster.

"We'll need four bombs, not three."

"The deal was—" Williams started to speak, but Foster cut him off.

"Is that a problem, Duncan?"

Ray stared at him, then looked at the amount of plastique. "No, but—" He peered into the bag. "There are only three timers."

"We won't need a fourth."

"What the hell are you planning, Foster?" Williams was frowning.

"A side trip to get your money."

"What, you're going to blow up a—" Williams broke off, and his tone changed. "You're joking."

"No, it's perfect." Foster's enthusiasm was obvious. Ray sat down at the table. His head was spinning again.

"It's stupid. You haven't planned for it."

"I have access to the building. We go in, get the money, and get out."

"Robbery taints your cause, doesn't it?"

"We can use their money." There was a glitter in Foster's dark eyes as he stared across the room. "They'll see."

"Who?" Williams' voice was quiet.

Foster snapped a look at Williams. "It doesn't matter to you, does it?

"Only if they interfere with my money. If you're not the one in charge—"

"You're just dealing with me." Foster swung round to Ray. "What are you waiting for?"

Ray looked down at the table. All the pieces were familiar, but he wasn't certain….

"What about food?" Williams asked.

"What?"

"Food. The meet isn't until after midnight, right? It will help him." Ray caught Williams' eye on him.

"Is there anything here?" Foster glanced towards the kitchen.

"Nothing. This isn't a transport caff." His eyes flicked to Ray and back to Foster. "You'll have to get something."

"Why me?"

"Your job, your money."

Foster's lips tightened, but then he blew out his breath. "Fine. I'll go." He reached for his jacket. There was a gun in the jacket pocket, Ray remembered. "Get to work. I'll be back soon." Foster left the flat.

The gun. The dead policeman. Bombs. He felt dizzy, and was glad he was seated. He had to—he could run, he suddenly thought. He could get away, get his head together. He half rose from the chair, flicked a glance at Williams. He didn't think Williams was armed….

"I wouldn't." Williams' voice was as level as his gaze.

Ray's heart jumped. "Wouldn't—?"

Williams tilted his head. "I wouldn't be surprised if Foster was just on the other side of that door, waiting a bit before he goes for the food. He doesn't trust us any more than we trust him."

Ray stared at Williams. How the fuck had he known what Ray was thinking? Before he even realised it, he was trying to deflect Williams: "He thinks you might take the money and run?"

"He doesn't know I don't quit on jobs." Williams' look was intent.

"What about…Operation…?" He couldn't remember the word Williams' had used.

"Susie? You can't quit one of those. You're on for the duration of the ride."

Alone and abandoned, Williams had said. Lost, like him. "How do you survive it?"

Williams' lashes covered his eyes for a moment. "In my case, I found someone I could trust." His eyes met Ray's.

Ray held his gaze, then looked down at the fuses and wire and plastique. It felt like he was suffocating.

"You've got a job to do, Ray."

"I know."

"Start with the plastique."

A flash of anger made his voice hard. "Then why don't you do it, if you know so much?"

"I can lend a hand." Williams sat down across from him and reached for the plastique. "You might find it settles you, doing a job you're familiar with."

Ray eyed him, but Williams concentrated on dividing the plastique. Ray didn't want to do this; he didn't want to be part of it. Yet he was curious as well. He knew the components of the bomb. He could see in his mind how they would fit together, but he wasn't certain how to do it. He watched Williams' hands—large, capable, deft with the wire and scissors. And he found his own hands could follow Williams' lead. It was as if his mind and body were divided. He didn't know what to do, but his hands did—and as he worked, he remembered how to do it. He created destruction with the supplies given to him.

Who was he? What the fuck was he, that he could do this?

"You know what you're doing. You've had training."

Ray faltered. "Oh, yeah?"

"Formal training shows. Police, Army, CI5."

 _Criminal Intelligence five, I suppose. Sounds exciting._ He closed his eyes briefly. Was that his own voice? But the memory—if it was a memory—disappeared into the fog. Yet…something about the police was familiar. "Yeah. Pol—"

"Foster said you were in the Army." Williams' voice was flat.

Ray glanced at him. There was a sort of hard determination in Williams' face, but there was something else in his eyes that Ray didn't understand. "Oh."

"I was in the Paras, myself."

Williams seemed to be expecting some sort of response. "You like it better on the private side?"

"Supplying, yeah. I had enough of being shot at in Northern Ireland."

 _And if you think you're going to draw me out on that…_ He shook off the voice in his head, irritated. "You're not fussy about who you sell to, then."

Williams raised his eyebrows. "I am. They have to pay very well."

Despite himself, he nearly laughed at Williams' indignation. And he saw the amusement in Williams' eyes. "Mercenary."

"Cop—" Williams cut himself off. "Copped to that one already, didn't I?"

"Yeah." He looked away. "But money isn't everything, is it?"

Williams didn't say anything for a moment, then: "No. It's not."

They fell silent after that, working together as if they'd always done it. The bombs were finished too quickly for Ray's peace of mind. He stared at the bombs, thought about Barclays' head office. There were always people there—security, at the least. He wasn't a murderer. He wasn't.

"We make a good team." Williams stood to put the supplies back in the bag. "Like partners, eh?"

He looked up. There was warmth in Williams' eyes—as if they were comrades. But they'd made bombs, dammit. Fucking bombs. "We're not," he said harshly.

Williams' gaze flickered. "No, but…." He didn't finish the sentence, and he looked away.

Ray closed his eyes. His head was hurting again.

There was a sound at the door. Ray opened his eyes, and turned his head towards the door. Foster walked into the flat, carrying a plastic bag. "Assorted sandwiches," he said, holding the bag up. "Are you finished?"

"Yeah," Williams answered. "All ready." Ray blinked at the sharp tone in Williams' voice.

"Good." Foster put the bag down and examined the bombs with a sort of suppressed glee. "These will do nicely."

"Enjoy causing mayhem, do you?" Williams opened the bag.

"Feeling squeamish?"

"Hardly." Williams placed the sandwiches and bags of crisps on the table.

"They don't mind contributing to thousands of deaths, I can tell you that."

"Oh, yes. The cause. Spare me, please." Williams turned away. "Tea?" He headed for the kitchen.

Foster watched Williams leave. "Cold bastard, isn't he?"

"He's clear about what he wants." Ray said the words slowly, pondering the contrast in Williams' attitude towards himself and Foster. He suddenly remembered Williams' voice from earlier in the evening: _That's not my line._ Yet Williams had known exactly how to build bombs, and he'd helped Ray. Had he done it for the money, or—?

"Money. And he doesn't care who he has to stand on to get it, as long as he's part of the privileged few. Well they'll receive what they deserve—what their policies and greed have earned for them. Tonight, England. Tomorrow, it'll be Germany, France, America—all the exploiters."

 _God save us from all idealists._ It was another voice in his head. Another fucking phantom voice.

"She'll see." Foster seemed to be speaking more to himself than Ray as he stared at the bombs. "They'll all see what I can do. What my money can— She said I couldn't."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Foster suddenly turned on him. "You just do as you're told. You and Williams both, like good, fucking soldiers."

"He was in the Paras." The words tumbled out without thought.

"The—"

"Telling tales, Duncan?" Williams walked into the room carrying a tray with tea, mugs, milk and sugar.

"I—" Was Foster not to know? He felt buffeted, as if he were in a whirlpool—constantly surprised and hit by uncertainty. But he looked at Williams and found a familiar anchor in his warm gaze. Ray's breath stopped on a dawning realisation.

"I told you I was in the service," Williams said to Foster. "Is that a problem?"

Christ. Was it that Williams wanted him? He couldn't account for that look otherwise, but….

"Not as long as you do the job."

"I know what I want. I'll do what I have to do to get it."

Williams didn't look at Ray, and his expression was that of the mercenary Foster expected. There was no warmth in him. But there had been earlier. Ray was certain of it.

"Then we're clear." Foster picked up a sandwich.

Ray wasn't hungry, but the tea was welcome. It was strong and sweet, just as he liked but tended not— His fingers tightened on the mug. He liked his tea sweet, but he'd started drinking it without sugar since…since…. Fuck. It was all a jumble. He rubbed his forehead. He couldn't pin anything down—faces, facts, voices. He knew his name was Ray Duncan, but it held little meaning for him. He knew he had been in the army, but he could remember nothing of it. He liked his tea sweet, but he took it plain because someone…someone laughed….

"Ray? You all right?"

He looked up, first at Williams and then briefly at Foster, who had paused in his eating. "Yeah." Foster returned his attention to his sandwich. "Thanks for the tea."

A smile flitted across Williams' face. "I thought you might like it." There was merriment in his eyes, as if he were enjoying a private joke. And the warmth was back. Ray hadn't imagined it—he felt it right down into his heart. In the confusing world he inhabited, Williams appeared to be the only solid, trustworthy thing. But Williams was a mercenary. Any warmth he might feel for Ray was a side effect of apparent desire. They didn't know each other.

 _Ray? You all right?_ He shivered as echoes merged in his head—Williams' voice and someone else's. It was so damn familiar, but it couldn't be. He couldn't trust his own judgement. He felt cold and wrapped his hands around the mug of tea.

The talk was desultory as they finished the meal and settled in to wait. Ray found himself drifting in and out, catching pieces of the conversation, but not following it. Williams wanted to know more about the plan, and if others were involved. Foster was by turns equivocal and testy. Ray found it was easier to just exist in the present—forget the past and the future. It brought a sort of calm to the cacophony in his head. Time slipped away without his noticing it.

"Wakey-wakey."

He was startled as a hand gripped his arm. "Bo—" He broke off in confusion. Williams' fingers tightened on him. Ray stared into his eyes and saw something so like yearning, it made him want to pull Williams into his arms. He drew back, shocked at the impulse. He had to stay in control.

Williams let him go. "It's time."

"Yeah. Okay." Ray took in a shuddering breath.

Foster voice intruded. "I thought you said he was fine."

"I said he has a likely concussion." Williams' face was impassive. "He'll be in and out of it because of that."

"Well, as long as he holds it together a few more hours."

"Oh, yes. Your need for three men. Care to enlighten us?" Williams' tone was light, but Ray got the impression he was weary.

"You'll see soon enough."

They carefully transported the bombs to Williams' van. Foster directed Williams to drive towards central London, with a detour to a squat building on the edge of Camberwell. The sign on the building read: Professional Cleaners of London.

"This is your brilliant plan." Williams stared through the windscreen at the building. There were a couple of vans parked on the street. A light shone from a window in the building.

Foster opened the van door. "You two stay here. This won't take long."

They watched as Foster disappeared into the building. "He's going to pass us off as a cleaning crew," Ray said.

"That's right."

"But…the security—"

"Foster must be known to them." Williams sounded grim, and he suddenly hit the steering wheel. "Christ. We _knew_ —" He closed his mouth, looked away.

"Who…knew?"

Williams glanced at him. After a moment he shrugged. "Ramsey and me. I knew him in the Paras—that's how I got involved in this. He wondered about Foster's plan."

Ray looked at the building, then back at Williams. "Foster works for the cleaning company, is that it? And he's cleaned Barclays' head office."

Williams nodded. "Which is why he can get us in."

Ray glanced at the bags containing the bombs. They'd get in, they'd set the bombs. People would die. Unless he did something about it.

"Here he comes."

Foster approached the van. He was wearing a grey overall with the company logo on it. He signalled for them to join him. Ray and Williams climbed out of the van.

Foster held up a set of keys. "We'll transfer into one of the company vans. Get the stuff. Can anyone trace this van back to you?"

Williams gave Foster a look.

"Yeah, okay, just checking, mate." Foster seemed to be radiating energy, now that the operation was finally underway.

"Twat," Williams said under his breath.

They secured three of the bombs onto separate cleaning carts in the back of the company van. The fourth bomb was stored behind the seat. Foster gave them grey overalls and headed for the driver's seat. Ray and Williams put on the overalls and climbed into the van as Foster started the engine.

Ray sat between Foster and Williams. It felt like there was a weight on his chest. Who was he that he would be involved in this? He had been in the army. He knew how to make bombs. But why would he be involved in a bombing? He flashed back to the sound of shouting and gunfire. Pain. He didn't want to blow up a building. He couldn't— "We have to stop it," he said to Williams.

"Stop what?" Foster asked.

"Are you feeling nauseous?" Williams put a hand on his leg.

"No, I—" Williams' grip tightened painfully. "Yeah."

"Christ. If I didn't bloody need a third man…." Foster pulled to the side of the road. Williams climbed out and dragged Ray with him.

He wasn't nauseous, but it helped to breathe in fresh air. "I—"

"He's okay," Williams called to Foster through the open door. "False alarm." He urged Ray back inside the van. And very softly into Ray's ear he said: "Not here."

Ray settled back in his seat as Foster got the van moving again. _Not here_. What did that mean? Would Williams help him? But Williams wanted the money, didn't he? Ray put a hand to his aching head. He had to find a way to stop the bombing. He had to.

It seemed to take no time at all to arrive at Barclays' head office. It was a large, Victorian building on the corner of two streets. They parked the van, took out the carts, and walked through a back entrance into the building. There was a security desk inside, staffed by two men. Foster gestured for Ray and Williams to stay back while he pushed his cart to the desk.

"New crew, Foster?" The security man looked bored. He had dark, receding hair and a moustache. He shoved a clipboard towards Foster, who signed on it.

"Yeah. First night on the job."

The second guard, a sandy-haired security man, glanced at them. "Were we notif—?"

"Yes, all right and proper," The first guard said.

"See you, lads." Foster waved at the guards and pushed his cart towards the lift. Ray glanced at the security guards, then followed Foster and Williams.

They took the lift to the basement, which apparently contained offices and the vault.

"You two take the corridors," Foster said softly. "Duncan, you go right, Williams left." He handed each of them a key. "Hide the bombs in one of the offices."

Williams nodded. "And set the timer for…?"

"Six."

It would leave them enough time to get away. The bombs would go off before most employees arrived, but there would still be casualties.

"What about you?"

Foster gestured down the hallway in front of him. "The vault's that way. There might be a guard there, but he'll know me. The others usually don't make a round on this floor until after we're finished. But be careful."

Williams caught Ray's eye, but didn't say anything before he turned and pushed his cart down the corridor. Ray hesitated, then took his own cart and headed to the right. He kept going until he reached the end of the corridor and saw a sign for stairs. The door to the stairs was locked, but his key opened it. He started up the stairs two at a time, but had to slow when his head protested. He arrived on the ground floor and found himself at the end of another corridor. He walked as quickly as he could, navigating towards where he thought the security desk had to be. To his relief, he found it without any wrong turns. There was only one guard there now—the dark-haired man with the moustache.

"What is it?" The guard's eyes narrowed as Ray approached.

"Bombs. Foster. He's planting them. You need to call the police."

The man stood, then walked around the desk. "I see." And the next thing Ray knew, the guard had a gun in his hand. He pressed it against Ray's side. "Nice and quiet, sunshine."

The world reeled around Ray for a moment. Security guards weren't armed—fuck. He wasn't surprised the man took him to the lift, and then to the basement. There was no one in the main corridor when they arrived, but Foster soon appeared. He no longer had a cart, and he scowled when he saw them.

"What the hell?"

"In there." The security guard gestured towards an office. Foster unlocked the door just as Williams returned. The guard shoved Ray into the office and the others followed. "Anyone down here?"

"No," Foster said. Williams shook his head when the others looked at him.

"He came to tell me what you were up to."

"Bastard." Foster stared at Ray, and then he lashed out, slapping him hard across the face. "Who the hell are you working for? Are you a bloody copper?"

Ray staggered, and would have fallen but for the hold the security guard still had on him. There was a ringing in his ears, and the world spun sickeningly.

"He's not." Was that Williams' voice?

"What would you know about it?"

"Put that damned gun away. Look, Foster, I told you. He's concussed. Confused. He probably doesn't know what the bloody hell is going on."

"You told me he was fine! He made the fucking bombs!"

"Keep your voice down, dammit," the guard hissed.

Ray was released and he half-sat on a desk, his head down.

"I told you he needed a doctor," Williams said.

"You—" Foster broke off. "We'll have to check his bomb. Gorton, go upstairs before they miss you."

"They probably already have, but it won't matter if I'm reprimanded, will it?" The guard walked to the door. "You'd better be quick." He left the office.

"Williams—"

"You go, I'll stay with him."

Ray raised his head and saw Foster smile, not very pleasantly. "Afraid I'll kill him?"

"I don't want any more complications. I want my money."

"You'll get it." Foster glanced at Ray. "Bloody hell." He turned and left the office, closing the door behind him.

"Ray?" Williams sounded tentative.

Ray looked at him, then pushed away from the desk, headed for the door.

"No." Williams stepped in front of the door.

Ray stopped, and took in the implacable expression on Williams' face. He turned away, then swung back, ready to go through Williams to get out. But Williams blocked his move as if he'd anticipated it. Ray threw a punch at him, Williams absorbed the blow and managed to get an arm lock on Ray.

"Stop it."

"Get off me!" Ray struggled.

"No— Dammit." Williams shifted his hold, and they were face-to-face. "It's too late for this! You wouldn't get ten feet."

Ray was breathing hard. "Okay." He relaxed in Williams' hold. But as soon as the man released him, he'd—

Williams' grip tightened. "I mean it." There was a pause, and then Williams breathed out. "Trust me, Ray."

"I don't bloody know you!" Yet there was something in Williams' eyes that held him still. It was more than warmth, more than desire. It cut straight through him, confused him. He didn't know what to do; he didn't know what to believe. "People are going to die." He heard the plea in his own voice.

Williams shook his head once, his gaze never wavering. "No." Ray stared at him, lost, unsettled. And then he heard Williams' voice in his head: _I found someone I could trust._ Slowly, Ray nodded. Williams' fingers tightened briefly, and then he let Ray go. Ray turned away, his heart pounding.

"Ray, I have to—" Williams stopped speaking.

As Ray turned back, the door opened and Foster came into the office. "What's going on?"

Williams' voice was cool. "Did you find it?"

Foster nodded. "And set it. Let's get out of here. You walk in front of me, Duncan."

"He's confused, not dangerous," Williams said.

"I'm not taking any chances. Let's go."

Williams didn't move. "What now?"

"We go and get your money."

"Got an inside man there, too?"

Foster shrugged. "I don't need one."

"What are your backers going to think about this side bank job?"

"I told you, that doesn't matter—"

"He hasn't got any," Ray said. And for once, the memory he needed slid right into place in his mind. "He's doing this to impress a bloody girl."

There was a pause. "Oh, are you?" The amusement was obvious in Williams' voice, but it seemed to Ray there was a sudden readiness in him that hadn't been there before.

"They should have listened to me! My plan was brilliant and I had my own funding."

"It still has to work." Williams sounded preoccupied. His face was now expressionless. Ray found himself tensing, and didn't know why.

"It will." Foster grabbed Ray's arm and shoved him towards the door. "Move it, Duncan, or I'll kill you now." Ray stumbled. Foster grabbed his shoulder, then punched him hard over his kidneys. Ray gasped, but twisted free of Foster and rounded on him. He stopped cold at the sight of the gun in Foster's raised hand.

"Foster!" Williams was behind Ray, at the door.

"It would be so easy," Foster said. Ray saw the eagerness in Foster's eyes.

"Don't be stupid, Foster." Williams appeared in Ray's peripheral vision. "You want to bring the other guards down here?"

Foster didn't care, Ray thought. He doubted Foster even heard Williams. He was getting off on a sudden surge of power—control over life and death.

"It's over, Foster, the building's surrounded—you're not getting out of here. You failed."

Foster blinked, and his gaze flickered to Williams. "What?" Ray turned to look as well.

"We've been on to you from the start. Do you think it's that easy to get hold of plastique?" Williams' tone was derisive.

Foster took a sudden step forward, locked his left arm around Ray's neck and pulled him like a shield in front of him. "I don't bloody believe you." Foster's voice was harsh in Ray's ear.

Williams' face was hard. "Give it up—you've no chance."

"Who're you—"

"CI5." Williams radiated confidence. Was it a bluff, or—?

Ray's heart soared, but he felt the movement as Foster lifted his gun hand towards Williams. Ray slammed his head back hard against Foster. He heard the gun fire, and knew Foster had to have missed, but pain was lancing through him, and darkness closing in. Foster's grip eased. Ray fell to his knees, clutching his head. The gunshot seemed to echo in his head and grow in volume.

"Ray!" Williams was in front of him. The darkness receded a bit, but the world was spinning.

Ray put a hand on Williams' shoulder to steady himself. It was solid, like an anchor. "C. I…."

"5. Yeah, and so are you."

"F-Foster?"

"Dead, thanks to you. Your method was unorthodox, but…."

"It…worked." His head was pounding sickeningly, and the darkness beckoned. But he saw the blazing light in Williams' eyes and it drew him. Ray reached with his other hand, touched Williams' face—somehow, his mouth found Williams'. And the world was still at last, like in the eye of a hurricane. Then he felt Williams' arms wrap around him, and the kiss turned frantic, desperate. Real. He wanted to hold on to the moment; he wanted to hold on to the clarity of new-found desire. But his vision was darkening again, and his mouth slid away from Williams'.

"Ray." He was eased to the floor by hands he knew as well as his own.

"Bodie," he whispered, and knew no more.

 

*****

 

Doyle opened his eyes and knew immediately he was in hospital. There was no mistaking the decor of the room, or the distant sounds, or the smell. "Bugger." He vaguely remembered an ambulance, and bloody people asking him bloody questions—

"Oh, you're awake, are you?"

He turned his head and saw Bodie in a chair near the wall. "Who let you in here? Mercenary arms dealer…." He trailed off as he realised Bodie hadn't moved, hadn't smiled. "What's wrong?"

Bodie looked at him. "Ray?"

"Yes?" He drew out the word.

Bodie swallowed. "Doyle?"

"What the fuck's going on, Bodie?" He tried to think back, but it was like peering through a fog.

"Thank God." Bodie's smile was one Doyle had never seen before. He blinked, and felt a little breathless. Bodie seemed to recollect himself. "Who's been making a right prat of himself, then?"

But Bodie's underlying tension was too obvious for Doyle to respond lightly. Something like dread was rising in him. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"We're…on a case. Under…." He looked around, realised he was in a private room, not a ward. He looked back at Bodie and frowned. "Hospital?" His mind was bombarded with images that didn't make sense: Bodie, Foster, a building, a…flat— "Why—?"

"The case is over." Bodie's voice was quiet. "We were undercover. You were…?"

"Ray Duncan, ex-Army. Trained in explosives. I met Ramsey through work. He blackmailed me into helping him and Foster." He rattled off the well-rehearsed back story.

"That's right." Bodie raised his eyebrows. "And then? What happened at the warehouse?"

"We…. We were waiting for the plastique. You. And…." He stared into space, then closed his eyes. "There was...someone…." He heard shouting, saw flashes of light. He remembered pain—felt an echo of it in his head.

"You were shot."

"Christ. I don't…." He drew his brows together but he couldn't remember anything except—"

"Okay. Then what?"

"Foster. He got me out. And you…." He remembered Bodie, the van. They'd gone to a flat and Bodie— He opened his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Bodie flinched, but his voice was calm when he spoke. "Tell you what?"

"Who I was."

Bodie sighed. "You were confused. You wouldn't have understood. You were also repeating things, and Foster was there."

"You…patched me up, didn't you?" It was like picking pieces for a jigsaw puzzle without being certain all the pieces were there. Some of the memories fit, others didn't, and too much was missing.

"Yeah, at the flat—safe house two, to be precise. Remembering, are you?"

"Some of it—more as we talk about it. I remember wanting to get away."

"I thought about letting you go when we were at the flat. Foster went for food, remember that?" Doyle nodded slowly. "But I wasn't certain anyone from CI5 had arrived yet, and Foster wouldn't have gone far. It seemed safest to keep you with me."

There was something odd in Bodie's voice, but maybe it was just the apparent exhaustion. There were shadows under his eyes. "Must've been rough."

Bodie shrugged. "At least you came out of that warehouse. You were injured, confused, and you didn't know who I was—but you were alive."

"Confused is right. I didn't know what I was doing there." He frowned. "When was all this?"

"Last night. You've been here since early this morning."

That felt right. He remembered a neurological exam. Someone had remarked on his fitness, and he'd said— "You told me I was in the bloody army!"

Bodie grinned. "Yeah, well, you were, mate—as Ray Duncan. You had to have your story right for Foster—especially with you blurting things out right, left and centre."

"I never!"

"'He was in the Paras'. Straight quote."

Doyle winced. "Sorry. Why didn't you pull the plug?"

"I talked to Cowley when I arranged for the safe house. You know the drill—as long as your injury wasn't life threatening; if I thought we could pull it off…."

"He wanted Foster's connections, his backers."

"Which Foster didn't bloody have."

 _She'll see._ It was Foster's voice, he was certain of it. "There was a girl…."

"Isn't there always?" Bodie shifted in his chair. "We don't know who she is—someone Foster wanted to prove himself to, evidently. But he and Ramsey and Gorton were acting on their own."

"Gorton?"

"Security guard at Barclays."

Doyle squinted at Bodie. "Moustache?" Bodie nodded. "I…went to him for help."

"Yes, not the brightest move you've ever made."

"It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time." Doyle looked at his hands as he tried to focus his hazy memory The security guard—Gorton. The basement of Barclays' head office. Foster. Bodie. He froze, his breath caught in his throat. Bodie. And he'd—

"Ray?"

"Yeah." He kept his eyes down, kept still while he learnt to breathe again. "Just trying to work it out." He'd kissed Bodie. Oh, Christ.

The silence seemed heavy and abnormally long before Bodie spoke again. "The doctor said it might take time for your memories to return—if they do."

"Okay." He lifted his eyes to Bodie's. There was nothing to be read in Bodie's face, but Doyle knew that impassive look. He would bet anything Bodie remembered the kiss—and wasn't going to speak of it. He cleared his throat. "It's…odd. I remember some things clearly, but there are gaps, and random bits that don't fit. It's…." He shook his head, and looked away.

"Tell me what you do remember. Start at the warehouse."

He welcomed Bodie's shift into professional mode. "Nothing at the warehouse before Foster woke me up. Well, I remember going there with Ramsey. We had the gear and were waiting for you. But…it's blank after that." He frowned, feeing a rising panic. He was unused to his memory playing him false. It was worse than a stoppage, and just as dangerous in his line of work.

"Don't push it. What about later?"

"Bits and pieces. We were in a van, right? I remember you and Foster talking. And then the flat—safe house. You patched me up and we built the bombs. Blimey, you were taking a risk there."

"The plastique was inert."

Doyle opened his mouth, then closed it. "Of course it was."

There was amusement in Bodie's eyes. "Are you complaining?"

"Wouldn't have made quite such a prat of myself with Gorton, if I had known."

"Ah, but you wouldn't have flushed him out, either. Well done, Four-five."

"Gosh. Thanks."

"No, but it was something, you know, watching you 'remember' how to assemble that bomb."

"Yeah—it was weird. My hands…." He remembered something else. "You brought me sweetened tea!"

Bodie grinned. " _Duncan_ takes sugar."

"Berk." He looked across the room, staring at nothing. "After that…we were in the van again, weren't we?"

"Yeah."

"It's all mixed-up. I remember thinking I had to stop Foster somehow."

"Trust you."

"So I went to the guard, and he brought me back to Foster and you." He glanced at Bodie. "I was thinking I'd have to go through you to get out."

"But you didn't."

"You could have told me then." _Trust me, Ray._ The words seemed to hang between them.

"I almost did, but…." Bodie was looking down at his hands. One fist was curled into the other.

"I trusted you anyway."

Bodie looked up, then his gaze flickered away. "Habit, wasn't it? Anyway, it was still playing out. I didn't know Foster's only colleague was Gorton. And you were—"

"Unreliable." Doyle nodded. "I blew it with Foster, didn't I? Should've stayed cool after he hit me, but—"

"You reacted like you're trained to react. He came at you. It was just like with the bombs."

"Yeah." _You know what they made of me, don't you?_ It was an old memory, but he kept it sharp. He pushed it away. "And then you blew our cover, didn't you?"

"You would remember that."

"What did you think he'd do, throw up his hands and say, 'I surrender'?"

Bodie folded his arms. "Something like that. Anyway, it worked out."

"Yeah, because I—" He broke off. "I…." He frowned.

"You smashed your head into him. Effective, if dangerous."

"Oh, that's what it was. I remember the pain, but…." Doyle raised his eyebrows. "Did you have a gun?"

"Yeah—small calibre. I killed Foster—Cowley was not pleased—and that was pretty much it." Bodie wasn't looking at him.

Doyle nodded. His throat felt constricted. He concentrated on the case. "All that work and nothing—"

"We have Gorton. The Squad really was surrounding the building. But it does look like they were working alone. Gorton was in it for the money. Ramsey and Foster for the cause—whatever the hell it was."

"Anti-Apartheid to begin with, but they'd turned towards anarchism. Do you know what really happened at the warehouse?"

Bodie shook his head. "Malone and his boys are working on the lab evidence. I can tell you Her Majesty's Constabulary are not pleased about that."

"It was a policeman, then."

"Robert Cox, Constable. It appears he stumbled upon you in the warehouse. Ramsey must have panicked."

"How did I get shot?"

"Maybe you tried to stop it."

"But then how did Ramsey—?"

"Don't know. There was no gun at the scene."

"Foster picked it up."

Bodie's eyes narrowed. "You remember that?"

"Yeah. I remember bits after Foster woke me up."

"I'll tell Malone. We have Foster's gun. At least that means it is less likely there's a mystery player."

"Who would that be?"

It's a _mystery_ , you see." Bodie shifted in the chair, uncrossing his arms. "Anyway, that's why you're in a private room and you've got a junior at the door."

"Oh, that's comforting."

"Cowley doesn't like mysteries. You are our star witness—intact memories or not."

"When do I get out of here?"

"That depends on you. They weren't happy that you passed out at Barclays, even with all the head-butting. But the CT scan was negative, and you know me now. Although how you could have forgotten me before…."

Doyle rolled his eyes. "So, I should be able to go home?"

"Tonight or tomorrow." Bodie looked around. "In fact, I suppose I should report you've done just what they said you'd do—patchy memory but you know who you are."

"Always get the debrief over first, right?"

"I am as well-trained as you are." Bodie stood up.

"Cowley's orders?"

Bodie's grin told him he was right. Doyle's eyes widened as he watched Bodie withdraw a small handgun from his pocket. "Is that it, then? What you used on Foster?"

"Yes. Here." Bodie handed it to him.

"What do I need this for?" Doyle took the gun. It was loaded.

"Bed bugs."

"There'd be nothing left but—nothing, in fact."

"Why take chances?" Bodie turned towards the door. "I'll be by later."

"George Cowley willing." Doyle looked around the room. "Oi! Where are me grapes?"

"Pips, mate. Not good in—" Bodie faltered but Doyle rescued him.

"Bed. Yeah, I remember. I'll risk it."

"Oh, daring." Bodie grinned. "See you later, Ray." He left the room. Doyle stared at the ceiling and wondered what the hell they were going to do.

He went back over it in his memory: he'd kissed Bodie. That moment, more than any other, he recalled with perfect clarity. It had seemed natural to kiss Bodie—inevitable. And Bodie had responded. Bodie had welcomed him with a ferocity that had betrayed his need. He remembered. And he was damn sure Bodie did as well.

There was a ready-made out for them, if they wanted it. He need never acknowledge the memory. He knew, as well as he knew anything, that Bodie wouldn't bring it up. The question was why.

He could explain away the kiss. They had both been off-balance; they had both nearly been killed. When Foster had trained his gun on Bodie, Doyle had reacted instinctively. Even lost to himself, he'd known the importance of Bodie. He had been so bloody relieved when Bodie had crouched before him. And Bodie's reaction? Relief, joy—both could be mistaken for need or desire. It had been just a kiss.

Except he remembered the expression in Bodie's eyes in the flat, and in the bank. In all the confusion and swirl of his memories, Bodie stood out. He'd studied him at the time with a need to understand that he hadn't understood until now. Perhaps it had been instinctual—a recognition of familiarity, or the need to read his partner. Whatever it was, he'd watched Bodie closely. And what he had seen had surprised Ray Duncan—but not Ray Doyle.

He turned his head as he heard voices at the door. A nurse came into the room, and Doyle caught a glimpse of Jenkins in the corridor outside.

"Good morning, Mr Doyle. How's your headache now, then?"

He remembered the nurse. Or, rather, he remembered her far too perky voice. "Fine."

"Any nausea or double-vision?" She put the blood pressure cuff on his arm.

"No."

"That's fine." She took his blood pressure, checked his temperature and pulse, and shone a pen torch in his eyes. "It'll be every two hours for neuro obs now," she said.

"Terrific."

"Breakfast should be along shortly."

He nodded, watched her leave, and wished passionately he could get out now, get on a bike, or go for a run. He needed to clear his head, work out what to do.

Bodie wanted him. He was certain of it. He'd seen it and felt it, and he didn't think it was new. But Bodie had never acted on that desire. There could be many reasons for that, but he reckoned they came down to three: Cowley, Doyle, and Bodie himself.

Doyle was under no illusions about Cowley, or the risk they'd run if they were to become sexually involved. Yet there were ways around it, if that was what they wanted to do. If. Bloody hell, was he really thinking about going to bed with Bodie?

He closed his eyes. Yeah, he wanted that. The kiss had been more than enough proof for him. Maybe he had wanted it for a while, but he had long ago trained himself to bury such thoughts. Sex with Bodie…. He let his mind dwell on it—on Bodie's power, grace, and wealth of experience. And, as he well knew, Bodie had an unexpected capacity for tenderness. He shivered, opened his eyes, and reached for the water glass near his bed.

He knew he wasn't thinking clearly. It still felt like a whirlwind was in his brain. But the desire for Bodie—and the connection between them—had held true even through confusion and memory loss. He'd reached for it, despite knowing that 'Williams' was a mercenary arms dealer. Doyle's hand gripped the glass tighter. Now that the door was open to desire—the thought there—he didn't want to let it go. He wanted Bodie.

He set the glass down and lay back in bed. The fact remained, Bodie had never tried it on with him. There had to be a reason for that. Doyle swallowed. They'd both refused to bring the memory of the kiss out into the open, but was that a tactic of delay or denial? He didn't know what was best, nor could he know until he'd had a chance to talk to Bodie. If he wanted to risk it. He touched the gun that Bodie had left him. He'd see Bodie later. He resolutely set his mind to thinking about the case and what he could remember from the warehouse.

It was a frustrating endeavour, trying to coax his memory. Eventually, he gave it up and slipped into a doze. He woke with a jerk, confused and on the edge of panic. He didn't know who he— He remembered. Bodie; himself. Oh, Christ. His heart was beating hard, and he was breathing as if he'd been running. Gradually, his body relaxed. He didn't try to sleep again.

The nurse, and then her successor came as regularly as promised. Breakfast was followed by lunch. Barnes replaced Jenkins at the door to his room, and made a feeble joke about Doyle losing his marbles. Finally, much later in the day, the doctor arrived. He was a ridiculously young-looking blond man, but he went up in Doyle's estimation as soon as he said: "Yes, you're fit for discharge."

Doyle smiled.

"I thought that would please you. Your partner knows the signs to watch for. Forty-eight hours of observation and you're in the clear." When Doyle nodded, he continued: "You can get dressed. I believe Mr Bodie is on his way here."

When Doyle emerged from his room, he found Barnes in discussion with another man Doyle didn't recognise.

"Doyle, perfect," Barnes said with evident relief.

"What is it?"

The other man stepped forward. "DI Evans." The man handed an ID to him. "Now that you've been discharged, I'd like a word with you."

"Mr Cowley will—"

"The request is working its way through channels—you know how it is." Evans looked at him as if considering. "Look, DC Cox was a friend. I just want to know what you know."

"I don't remember much. The doctor says more might return in a few days. You will be kept informed."

"Yeah." Evans glanced away. He was a big man, taller than Doyle, with brown hair and brown eyes. "I heard your partner—Bodie—is on his way. Let me at least walk with you to the car park, eh? Just a quiet conversation on the side. What harm can it do?"

Doyle hesitated, then nodded. "All right." He gestured towards Barnes' R/T. "Tell Bodie I'll meet him in the car park."

"Right."

Doyle and Evans walked towards the lift. "Tell me what you do remember."

Doyle explained the set-up and the little he recalled from the warehouse. "I don't know why Cox came into the warehouse, but I suppose he was suspicious. That was his patch, wasn't it?"

"You could say that."

They exited the lift at the car park. Doyle didn't see Bodie or the Capri. "I can only assume Cox spooked Ramsey and he panicked."

"And then you fought over the gun—you were injured, and Ramsey killed."

Doyle shrugged. "It's the only thing that seems to fit—" He broke off as he heard a car approaching faster than it should have been.

It was Bodie in the Capri. Doyle rolled his eyes as Bodie performed a textbook handbrake turn in front of them. The car door opened and Bodie climbed out. "Ready to go, Ray?" His voice was light, but Doyle knew he was on edge.

"Show-off." Doyle took an automatic step away from Evans. Bodie's left hand was shielded by the car door. Doyle started to take another step, but froze as he felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his side.

"That's far enough." Evans' voice was cold. "Get away from the car, Bodie—hands in plain sight."

Bodie hesitated, then lifted both hands. There was a gun in his left. "Don't be stupid, Evans. How far can you get?"

"What the hell's going on?" Doyle held himself very still.

"Ballistics report." Bodie's eyes never wavered from Evans. "Two different guns were used at the warehouse."

Doyle drew in a breath. "Cox had a gun." It didn't trigger his memory, but he was certain of it. There was no legal reason for Cox to have a gun. "What was it? Protection money? And you ran the scheme."

"Put the gun down, Bodie. Kick it away."

Bodie did as he was told, his expression closed and hard.

"We're all going for a ride now. Bodie, you drive." Evans gestured with his left hand; his right hand held the gun steady against Doyle. "We'll be in the back. If I see anything I don't like, I will kill him."

They complied with Evans' orders. Bodie started the Capri and drove out of the car park. The sun was low in the summer sky, long rays slanting across the streets. "The game's up, Evans. You're finished."

"Left here, then follow the road for a mile or so."

Doyle flicked his eyes towards Evans. "You came to find out how much I remembered."

"Yes, and how much you'd told them. I knew they'd find out two guns were involved. If it was as they'd said, and you didn't remember, then I was going to kill you and make it look like suicide."

"Guilt for killing Cox, is that it? They wouldn't have believed it."

"Take the next right, Bodie. Then drive behind the building." Evans pressed the gun slightly harder against Doyle's side. "This is the other gun from the scene. They'd find you dead, with your prints all over it, you see."

"How did you get—?"

"He was first on the scene, weren't you, Evans?" Bodie's voice was hard.

"That's right. I should have made sure of Doyle then, but that other bastard arrived. Never mind. They can investigate all they like, but they won't find any proof of anything. Meanwhile, the gun that matches your ballistics report— Well, now." Evans paused. "Doyle _might_ have shot Cox; he might shoot his partner as well. Stop here." They were in the deserted, weed-strewn remains of a car park behind a condemned building. In its last years, the building appeared to have been a hotel.

"Barnes saw you leave with me," Doyle said.

Evans shrugged. "Your partner met you as expected. This is as far as you got before he found out what you did. Out of the car." Doyle climbed out, followed by Evans and Bodie. "Move back, towards the building."

"It's not going to work. No one will believe it." Bodie was in front of Doyle, closer to Evans as they walked slowly backwards.

"His method is unorthodox, but…it might work." Doyle said. He saw Bodie's head lift, and his stomach tightened.

"It's the only chance I—" Evans' voice cut off as Bodie tripped, overcompensated, and fell towards Evans.

Evans reacted instantly, dodging Bodie, and landing a blow with the butt of his gun against Bodie's head. Bodie fell.

The distraction was enough—Doyle pulled out the gun Bodie had left him. He fired, and Evans tumbled to the ground next to Bodie. Doyle moved forward, kicked Evans' gun out of his hand.

"Bodie?" Doyle kept his eyes on Evans, who pressed his left hand against his bleeding shoulder.

Bodie groaned as he sat up. "I'm going to have a bruise to match yours, aren't I?"

Doyle grinned. "Yes, well, share and share—"

"Except when you don't." Bodie's tone was flat. "When did you remember, Ray?"

There was no escaping the look Bodie pinned him with, or hiding the truth. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to.

Bodie's eyes narrowed. "You remembered all along. 'Unorthodox'. What if I hadn't—"

"Oh, I knew you remembered."

Bodie pressed his lips together. "I'll call it in." He headed for the Capri.

Doyle kept his eyes and gun on Evans. The tactic of denial was no longer viable for Bodie or him. He glanced quickly at Bodie. He didn't want to forget the kiss. He didn't want to deny what he had seen in Bodie's eyes.

Bodie got out of the car and leaned against its side, facing Doyle and Evans. Doyle sidled over to him, still watching Evans. "Headache?"

"Yeah."

"Know who I am?"

Bodie snorted, but said nothing. Doyle relaxed next to him.

It didn't take long for an ambulance and backup to arrive. Barnes wanted to take Evans into immediate custody and ride with him to the hospital. But in the end, Barnes drove Doyle back to the hospital in the Capri, and Bodie rode with Evans in the ambulance. Barnes then joined Evans in Casualty, while a doctor took a quick look at Bodie's injury.

"Observation for forty-eight hours. Bring him in if there's any change."

Doyle sighed. "Right."

"You'll probably have a spectacular bruise on the side of your face," the doctor said to Bodie. He glanced at Doyle. "You'll match."

"Terrific," Doyle said, and glared as Bodie's lips twitched.

Cowley arrived shortly afterwards and met them in Reception.

"Well done, both of you. And I'm pleased you didn't kill this one."

"Yes, sir," Doyle said. Bodie rolled his eyes, and Doyle stifled a smile.

"A tidy piece of work. Two for the price of one, you might say. Doyle, I take it you've been discharged?"

"Under forty-eight hour observation," Bodie said.

"Very well. I want your written reports on both of these situations. Bodie, see if you can't get him to remember a bit more about that warehouse. This is not going to endear us to the police."

"Who wants to be—? Yes, sir."

"The doctor said my memory might never come back." Doyle didn't try to hide the weariness he felt.

"Aye." Cowley studied them both for a moment. "Consider yourselves on leave for the next two days—except for those reports." He looked around as Barnes approached.

"They're moving Evans, sir."

Cowley nodded. "Dismissed," he said to Bodie and Doyle, and turned to follow Barnes.

They were quiet as they returned to the car park and climbed into the Capri. As Bodie drove into the street, Doyle retrieved the handgun he'd used. "Thank you for this."

Bodie nodded, took the gun from Doyle and put it into his jacket pocket. It was the same jacket he'd worn on the op. Night had fallen while they were in the hospital. Was it only yesterday that it all had happened? Doyle looked out the window while Bodie drove.

"They have a possible lead on that girl Foster was trying to impress."

"Oh, yes?" Doyle didn't turn to look at him.

"Judy Wynans. She's gone, possibly to Germany."

"And she's the real deal."

"Could be. Maybe Foster wanted in with them—if there is a 'them'."

"There's always someone, isn't there?"

"Yeah."

They were quiet for a bit. Doyle saw that Bodie was heading for Doyle's flat. "At least now we know what happened in the warehouse."

"Have you remembered any more?"

"No." Doyle glanced at him. "You knew about Evans?"

"I talked with Barnes just before I got to the hospital—found out you were with Evans. That and the ballistics report…."

"That's quite a leap. Evans might have been investigating, just as he said."

"Then no harm done."

"You're a cautious man."

Bodie changed gear for a turning. "Sometimes."

"Except when you threw yourself at Evans, of course."

Bodie glanced at him. "Except then."

"Or when you blew our cover with Foster."

"Oi, what was I supposed to do? Let him shoot you?"

"He would have done, too."

"I know." Bodie's voice was grim.

Doyle looked at him. Bodie's face was part shadow, his eyes on the road. "You were walking a fine line. You kept your cover, my cover, and yet you had to get me to trust you."

Bodie nodded.

"I was desperate, you know? I couldn't make sense of the world I was in—how I could be part of a plan to blow up innocents in some mad statement to the world. It made me sick."

"You fought it. Even confused, when everyone was telling you to go along with the plan, you fought it. There's not many would do that."

"Or pull off what you did."

Bodie shrugged. "It's ingrained, isn't it? Years of training. Habit. We—"

"Kissed."

After a moment, Bodie cleared his throat. "Yeah. Must've been something of a shock when you remembered that." He turned into Doyle's road.

"No. It wasn't." He could feel his heart beat as he waited, but Bodie said nothing. "I saw it in your eyes, you know, when you were Williams. You wanted me. It…made sense. It explained why an arms dealer would help a stranger."

Bodie shrugged. "Yeah, well, you were confu—"

"I wasn't confused about that."

"You were confused about everything! You didn't bloody know me. You said it yourself—you were trying to make sense of your world. And there I was, trying to get you to trust me. You made the facts you had fit a pattern, that's all." He found a parking space near Doyle's block of flats, and brought the car to a stop.

Doyle nodded. "That's your story, then."

Bodie's face was blank. "No story. Just a—"

"Come up." He got out of the car and walked to his block, very aware of how long it took for Bodie to follow him. He let them into his flat. All he wanted was to take a shower and go to bed. He should let it go, give them both time. But it felt like something was slipping away from him, like a will-o'-the-wisp. He turned on lights and led Bodie into his living room. He closed the curtain, and felt Bodie's eyes on him.

"Look," Bodie said. "We're both knackered. If it's the kiss you're worried about, don't be. It was no big deal. Stress relief, right?"

He turned to look at Bodie, who stood by the door. He wondered if his own desire was as easy to see as Bodie's had been. "Relief that we were still alive."

"Yeah." Bodie's hands were in the pockets of his jacket. He looked confident, but Doyle could read the tension in his body.

"Just forget about it, is that it?"

"I already have, mate."

Doyle licked his lips. "What if I can't?"

There wasn't a flicker on Bodie's face. "What are you saying, Ray?"

Doyle moved towards him. "I felt your response. I—"

"You felt what you thought you should—"

"No! Bloody hell. Do you think I couldn't tell?"

"You were confused."

"Stop lying to me!"

Bodie abruptly turned away. "What good does this do, eh?"

Doyle let him go, but kept quiet.

"Damn you." Bodie sighed. "All right. Yes. I wanted you. Have wanted you."

"Still do."

Bodie glared. "Not just at the moment."

He couldn't help but smile at Bodie's tone.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter, okay? It doesn't affect the partnership. It never has."

Doyle tilted his head. "How long?"

The expression in Bodie's eyes reminded him of Williams. He straightened, but Bodie looked away, then shrugged. "Couldn't tell you."

Doyle didn't believe him. "Why'd you never try it on, then?"

"Oh, give me a break, Doyle. Why would I?"

"Might have been having it off all this time." More seriously, he said: "I might have liked to have known."

"Yeah? Well, now you do. I fancy you, okay? Right. It's been a bloody long day, so I'm off—"

"Bodie!" He caught up with him at the doorway, put a hand on his arm. "Don't go."

Bodie's face was hard, his arm muscles rigid. "Is this going to make a difference?"

"What?" Doyle released him.

"Can we work together?"

"Of course we—" He broke off as he saw Bodie's shoulders settle. "You stupid twat. Do you think I'd ever let anything interfere with that? No." He stepped closer. "I had something else in mind." He leaned forward, brushed his lips against Bodie's. But Bodie's hands gripped his arms, and pushed him aside.

"No." Bodie walked away a few steps.

"Why not? It won't affect the job—we're too good for that." Bodie didn't say anything. "Is it Cowley?"

Bodie glanced at him. "It's against the rules, Doyle."

"You've never been one to let rules stand in your way."

"And you've never been one to court disaster just to—what the fuck's got in to you, anyway?"

"I…." He hesitated, then blurted it out. "I want you."

Bodie stared at him. "After one kiss?"

"I'm never going to hear the end of it, am I?" Doyle felt his smile waver. His muscles were tense but he didn't look away from Bodie.

Bodie seemed frozen, then his eyes narrowed. "Ah. Curious, are you?" He turned away.

Doyle drew his brows together. "Bodie—"

Bodie swung back. "You want to take a walk on the wild side, is that it? And you think—"

"No! Dammit. I just said—"

"I'll oblige. Well, bugger off—"

Suddenly he knew what Bodie was on about. He choked on something close to laughter. "You think I'm straight!"

"I won't be your experi—" Bodie broke off. His eyes met Doyle's in a searing look.

"I'm bi," Doyle said, and any humour he had felt was gone.

"You bastard."

Doyle lifted his chin. "You didn't tell me either, sunshine."

Bodie continued to stare at him, his face pale and hard, just as it was before a firefight. He nodded slowly. "Bi."

"Yeah. Hidden, of course."

"For years."

Doyle shrugged, never taking his eyes from Bodie.

"That's why you weren't shocked."

"By the kiss? Even with a concussion, I knew my own nature." He searched Bodie's face, seeking to reach him. "And I felt the connection between us."

Bodie looked away, down to the side. "Yeah. So, now that we know…."

"There's nothing to stop us." He paused as Bodie raised his eyes—and he found no welcome there. It seemed like a vice was suddenly closing around his chest.

"Convenient—in the partnership like that." Bodie's voice was uninflected.

Doyle was wary of that tone. "Maybe."

"Break the rules, have a fling, damn the consequences."

"I already told you, we're too good for—"

"Yeah. We could handle it." Bodie turned and paced towards the window. "If we want."

"And you don't."

"It's not worth the risk."

"The risk?" Doyle laughed, although he felt no amusement. There was something perilously close to grief in the pit of his stomach. "We're CI5—secrets are our bread and butter. Risk is a given. What is it, you really…?" He trailed off, staring at Bodie as a new thought presented itself. "You thought I was straight. That's why you never tried it on." He felt a spark of anger as he realised the implication.

"Didn't seem much point to it."

"Oh, no, that's not it. I was bloody safe, wasn't I?" He saw Bodie's eyes widen before he looked away. Doyle encouraged the anger he felt—it kept the grief at bay. "Even if I found out, I wasn't likely to say yes, was I? You sodding— I was _safe_."

After a moment, Bodie shrugged. He appeared cooly confident, unaffected by Doyle's revelation. "You said it earlier—I'm a cautious man."

"You're a bloody coward."

That seemed to sting. "Oh yeah. The SAS, CI5—well known for hiring cowards."

"Risking death? That's easy. Trusting me?" Doyle shook head.

"Of course I trust you! This has nothing to do with—"

"It's a pattern with you, isn't it? Anything from your past, anything on the inside, you keep—"

"Don't be so quick to judge." Bodie's eyes were narrowed. "You weren't exactly forthcoming, were you? Bloody hell, you weren't going to admit you remembered that bleeding kiss!"

"I—"

Bodie overrode him. "Christ, if I hadn't put it together when we were facing Evans—"

"Which I damn well _trusted_ you to do!"

Bodie stilled.

"Don't talk to me about trust when that's all that got us through this op!" He ignored Bodie's flinch. "I trusted you. I was half-blind with pain, confused, out of my head—but I trusted you. I let you pull me into that van."

"You would have gone along—"

"No. I went with my instincts. I went with _you_ —all down the line." He stared at Bodie, and he risked it all. "I went with my instinct when I kissed you."

Bodie breathed in, then out. "I wish to hell you hadn't."

Doyle turned away, closed his eyes for a moment, smothered the pain. "Fair enough." He looked back at Bodie, and read the misery under his determination. He had seen that look before, when he'd blamed Bodie for following orders to investigate Ann and her father. He'd felt betrayed then, but he'd been wrong. And this time, he could hardly blame Bodie for what he didn't want. Sometimes desire wasn't enough. "I'm going to take a shower. You— You're welcome to stay—we still have those reports." He waved his hand in a vague direction. "Or…tomorrow." He took in a breath. "Whatever." He moved towards the door, passing Bodie without looking at him.

"Right," Bodie said. He hadn't moved.

Doyle paused at the door. "The partnership stands." He glanced at Bodie, then away. "It saw us through memory loss. It'll…." He let the sentence die. "I promise it won't make a difference." He left the room, retrieved tracksuit bottoms from his bedroom, and headed for the bathroom.

He let the water run long enough to build heat in the shower. He wanted to rid himself of the stink of the hospital, the stink of the op. The scent of the shampoo reminded him of home, of who he was and what he had. He applied it, being careful of his head wound.

He hadn't thought about Ann for a long time. That interlude seemed more unreal as time passed. His attraction to her had been instantaneous, and she'd shown him a glimpse of a world he'd thought he wanted. But he'd wanted the job more. It was who he was. He'd threatened to resign in Cowley's office, but it had been an empty threat. He closed his eyes, let the water stream over him, rinsing the shampoo from his head. He reached for the soap.

He'd tried to do the job even when he couldn't remember it. He'd known he had to stop Foster and the bombing. And yet, he'd trusted Bodie even then.

 _People are going to die._

No.

Christ. His hand shook as he put the soap down. He'd risk the job for Bodie. He trusted Bodie with more than his life. He remembered the pull he'd felt towards Williams. It was nothing compared with the compelling pull towards Bodie. He put his hand on the shower wall to steady himself, then leaned on it for a final rinse. What the fuck was he going to do?

 _Break the rules, have a fling, damn the consequences._

It wasn't a fling he wanted. In fact, he could think of little else more disastrous than them having a fling. If that was the way Bodie felt….

 _I know what I want. And I'll do what I have to do to get it._

Bodie had played Williams very close to himself. He had been arrogance personified—supremely confident and competent. Foster had been appropriately wary. Ray…well, he'd seen something different, hadn't he? He'd felt the affinity between them, and that instinctive trust. Consequently, he'd studied Williams , but it had been _Bodie_ he'd seen—right down to the desire Bodie couldn't deny, and more.

Doyle straightened, turned off the water. He _knew_ Bodie wanted him. And he knew it was more than desire Bodie felt for him. That bollocks about it not being worth the risk—since when did Bodie ever let that stop him? He thought about Marikka, about Bodie's pursuit of King Billy, and all that Bodie had risked for them. Would he risk less for Doyle?

 _I found someone I could trust._

He knew damn well who Bodie had been talking about. So, what the fuck was he playing at, then?

He jerked open the shower curtain, climbed out, and reached for a towel. Bodie had thought Doyle was straight. Maybe he hadn't thought beyond that. Doyle stood still, his hands gripping the towel. He remembered the kiss. It hadn't been earth-shaking—it had been too rushed for that—but it had been a revelation. He'd felt the connection between them, like an electrical circuit completed. There might have been relief in Bodie's response, but there had been a hell of a lot more as well. It was typical Bodie, wasn't it? He'd show one thing on the surface, while underneath….

Doyle dried himself and hung the towel on the rail. He'd just have to find out what was really going on in his partner's bloody head. It might take time, but he'd do it. He clamped down on the hope that was springing to life within him. He knew better than to believe in miracles, but he did believe in Bodie.

He pulled on the pair of tracksuit bottoms. It was likely Bodie had left the flat, and that he wouldn't refer to any of this when they met again. He'd be all business, like a soldier getting on with his duty. A solder who took no unnecessary risks. Only Bodie had ended up on that water tower alone and cornered when he'd risked it all for Marikka, hadn't he? And he'd ended with a gun to his head when he'd gone after King Billy. Once Bodie settled on a course of action he damned the consequences. Once he'd drawn his line in the sand—

Doyle froze. He knew better than anyone about Bodie's hidden demarcations. There were those on the squad who assumed Bodie had a loose moral code, or none at all. In fact, Bodie's code of honour was strict, but it was one of his own making. Loyalty played a large role in it, as did protection, and justice, as Bodie conceived of it. It hadn't been Cowley's gun that had convinced Bodie to let King Billy go—it had been the promise of justice. If Billy had got off, Doyle knew what Bodie would have done.

Bodie had turned Doyle down, despite the fact that they both knew he wanted Doyle. In doing so, he'd looked as miserable as when he'd followed Cowley's orders to investigate Ann. Bodie had known Doyle would think it a betrayal, despite orders. In that conflict of loyalty, Cowley had held the upper hand, just as Keith had held it when Bodie had sought justice for him. When his own sense of honour governed Bodie's actions, there was no predicting them. What if Bodie had somehow decided that a sexual relationship with Doyle was crossing one of those lines of his? It would be the one thing that would keep Bodie from following his own desire.

Doyle closed his eyes for a moment and felt despair corrode the foundation of his hope. He looked up at the ceiling and bit his lip. All right. He didn't know for certain. And until he knew, he'd fight. He had to find out what Bodie really wanted. He opened the bathroom door. There was no light in the living room. Well, he'd expected that, hadn't he? He turned towards his bedroom, where the light he'd left on beckoned. Round one to Bodie. But there'd be—

He stopped in the doorway to his room. Bodie was sitting on the edge of Doyle's bed. His jacket was on but unbuttoned. Doyle could see the butt of Bodie's gun in his shoulder holster. Bodie didn't look up, which gave Doyle time to regain control of his expression. Doyle couldn't control the wild beating of his heart as he walked slowly forward and sat down on the bed next to Bodie.

The room was quiet. Bodie didn't seem to want to break the silence. Doyle finally nudged him with his knee. "Finished the reports yet?"

"Do you know how you looked at me when I was Williams?"

Doyle raised his eyebrows, but he didn't say anything. Bodie kept his eyes on his hands.

"You looked at me like I held the secret to the universe." Bodie paused for a moment. "Like I was a fucking light in the dark. And all I could do was tell you lies, confuse you more."

He hadn't expected this. "You had no choice. Cowley wanted—"

"Fuck Cowley. I would've pulled the bloody plug if I'd thought—" He swallowed his words. "I didn't know Foster had a gun, or that he'd be so eager to use it."

Doyle shrugged. "Well, there you go, then. It wasn't safe to tell me, so you had no—"

Bodie turned, lightning fast, and kissed Doyle. It was a hard, aggressive kiss, but Doyle met it—welcomed him, but didn't bend. He felt Bodie's desperation, just as he'd felt it the first time they'd kissed. Finally, Bodie dragged his mouth away from Doyle's. "Damn you." It sounded as if the words were being forced from him.

Doyle blew his breath out in a sort of laugh. "That's not exactly going to convince me to go away, you know."

Bodie's gaze flickered to his. "Yeah, stubborn, aren't you?" He looked away, his expression grim. "I should have known you'd keep trying to stop Foster. You'd bloody well go through anything and everyone to do the right thing. Your moral centre—"

"I didn't go through you."

Bodie was still, and then he looked back at Doyle.

"I found the one person I could trust." He saw something like fear in Bodie's eyes, and felt his own widen in surprise. "Bloody hell. You know that I—that boat's long gone, mate."

"I know you trust me, Doyle." Bodie pushed himself to his feet. "Don't you think I know that? I've _used_ it." Bodie's voice was harsh.

Doyle stood as well. "Yeah, when it's for my own good. When you're trying to protect—" He stopped speaking. It was as if a dam had burst as understanding flooded through him. The one line Bodie would never cross. Bodie had been protecting him on the op. Bodie _always_ protected him, even if it meant lying to him, throwing him off the scent, giving up his own— Bodie had been right earlier—this mess didn't have anything to do with Bodie not trusting _him_. "You…bloody wanker!"

Bodie closed his eyes.

Doyle grabbed him by his arms, fingers digging in. "All this time, all the misdirection and keeping me out of it. You not trying it on. You—bastard. I don't need _protecting_ , Bodie. I need _you_."

"You need a bloody keeper! I didn't dare let you out of my sight on the— Do you know how many times you would have died over the years, if I hadn't been there?"

"Yeah. And that goes both ways, sunshine. We're partners." He narrowed his eyes, seeking the words that would crack through Bodie's defences, convince him they were on the same side of this particular line. "It wasn't habit or training that got me to trust Williams, you know. I didn't remember all the times you've saved my life—or that I saved yours. It—this thing between us goes deeper than that. I saw it in you; felt it in me. You think I've got a moral centre? Well, you're my certainty, Bodie. You're the only thing that keeps me here, sometimes. Just like you kept me with you on that bloody op."

Bodie stared at him, his breathing quick and light. His voice was a whisper when he spoke: "It goes too deep. When you…didn't know me, I— I couldn't— I can't lose you."

Doyle tightened his hold. "You won't."

Their eyes met, as they'd met in the basement of Barclays, in the flat in Peckham—in a cemetery in London, on a rooftop after a stoppage. _Trust me. Thanks._ They both knew the way truth and lie intermingled, inextricable in their lives. He'd be there for Bodie, and Bodie for him, protecting each other—until death intervened. It was as much of a pledge as either of them could give. But for them, between them, it was enough.

Doyle let him go. "You're telling me it's not a fling, aren't you?"

Bodie cleared his throat. "Yeah. I reckon so. Yeah. See how it goes."

"Ah. Well, I shall just have to get used to a lack of variety, then. Shame. Don't know—

Bodie kissed him again, his arms winding tightly around him. Doyle responded whole-heartedly. He gave himself over to the bond between them. Eventually, he pulled away. "Don't know—" He paused to take in air. "Don't know about you, but that's convincing enough for me."

The smile that lit Bodie's face was in his eyes as well. "Yes, but you're anybody's when you're kissed."

"Well—" Doyle coughed. "This is true. However, there is a simple solution."

"Oh yeah? What's that, then?"

"Keep kissing me." Doyle pulled him closer and demonstrated the effectiveness of the solution.

"Interesting," Bodie said when he could speak again. "Cowley might object, mind." He took off his jacket.

"It would liven up briefings, wouldn't it?" He watched as Bodie removed his holster. "Planning to stay now, are you?"

"Yeah, a man's duty and all that." Bodie placed the holster on top of the dresser. "You're under forty-eight hour observation, the doctor said."

"And you. _Close_ observation." He helped Bodie remove his shirt. "I take my job seriously, you know." He felt Bodie's hand on his head, a gentle touch that brushed against his injury. Doyle sighed and leaned into Bodie. "Are you suggesting we not have mad, passionate sex tonight?"

"I think you'd fall asleep on me."

"You might be right." He took hold of Bodie's wrist. "Come to bed, though, eh?" He switched the lamp off with his free hand. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of a full moon through the window.

It wasn't odd to feel Bodie so close to him. He was used to having Bodie at his back or beside him. He knew the scent of him, the touch of his hand, even the feel of Bodie's breath on his own skin. Their partnership had always been intimate. Yet there was a difference—a new-found sense of completeness, perhaps. Doyle felt it in the way his body relaxed so comfortably against Bodie's. It was like coming home after a long op and shutting the door on the outside world. He breathed in contentment.

"All right?" Bodie's voice was low, perhaps a little uncertain.

Doyle turned onto his side, and faced Bodie, who raised himself onto his elbow. He put his hand on Bodie's chest. "I'm fine." He stroked a path along Bodie's shoulder, down his arm. Bodie was all hard muscle, his fitness a necessity of the job that was relied upon by both of them. Yet for all his toughness, Bodie was vulnerable where Doyle was concerned. He wouldn't soon forget the way Bodie had looked when he had entered his bedroom. "You?"

"Wondering a bit."

"About…?"

Bodie seemed to hesitate. "Bi, you said."

Yeah." He wished he could read Bodie's expression, but the moonlight wasn't strong enough for that.

"So, you've had…." Bodie trailed off, as if he didn't know how to express his thoughts.

"Men? Well, my experience wasn't exactly…one-on-one." And he couldn't help but grin at the quality of the silence that followed his statement.

"You…little devil."

"It was enough for me to know I liked it. Not enough to risk the job over, though—until you. What about you?"

Bodie traced a pattern on Doyle's chest with his finger. He didn't say anything.

"Bodie."

"I am very good on the theoretical—"

"You what?"

Bodie kissed Doyle quickly. "Never had much opportunity, you see."

"Maybe you should have joined the Navy instead of the Paras." Doyle licked his lips.

"Oh yeah, that's where I went wrong."

"Well, never mind. We'll learn together, eh?" Doyle shifted onto his back. He could feel the heat from Bodie's body.

"Like we did on the job." Bodie's hand swept across Doyle's chest.

"Absolutely,"

"How many times did we nearly kill each other that first month?"

Doyle smiled again. "Should be fun, don't you think?" He patted Bodie. "Don't worry, mate. I'll show you the ropes."

Bodie rolled close to him, and his voice was muffled by Doyle's shoulder. "Bloody— Don't believe—"

Doyle laughed. He put his hand on Bodie's back, and felt him settle more comfortably. They were both quiet, at peace. With something like amazement, Doyle realised it had only been a little over twenty-four hours since he had awakened in the warehouse. Thinking back was strange, he found. It was almost like he had two sets of memories—his own and "Ray's". He knew who he was now, but he remembered Ray's perceptions. Bodie was the bridge between them. His hand rested on Bodie's back, and he felt him breathe—steady and regular. Constant. Doyle closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion pulled at him. Fireworks could wait until morning. The reports could wait. He could finally surrender to the sleep his body craved.

But he jerked awake, just as he had in hospital, momentarily lost until a hand grasped his arm, steadying him. Bodie. As always. The hand on his arm trembled, reminding him of Williams in the van, who hadn't wanted him to sleep—hadn't wanted to let Doyle out of his sight. Doyle took in a ragged breath. "Sorry." He forced himself to relax.

"Okay?" Bodie's voice was low.

"Yeah, thanks. I just—" He put his own hand on Bodie's biceps, and felt the tension that was the source of the tremor. It hadn't eased. He frowned. "You weren't asleep—"

Bodie made an abrupt move as if to kiss him, but pulled back. And Doyle suddenly heard Bodie's voice from earlier: _Don't believe—_

Oh, Christ. He'd thought Bodie was making a joke. His grasped Bodie's arm, thinking of all the years Bodie had wanted him and stayed silent. All the years he'd denied himself to protect Doyle. It had only been twenty-four hours. "Bodie." There wasn't enough light for Bodie to see him, but he put his other hand on Bodie's face. "I'm not going to change my mind."

He felt Bodie swallow. "You've never wanted—"

"I never let myself think about it. The concussion, the amnesia took away that barrier. I don't want it back. I'd fight it—fight for you." He slid his hand to the back of Bodie's neck but didn't pull him forward. "Trust me, eh?"

"Follow my instincts?" Bodie's voice was thick.

Doyle smiled. "It worked for me."

Bodie kissed him, and Doyle thought he would willingly trade sleep just for that kiss to continue. It nourished him when he hadn't even known he'd been starving. Bodie slid on top of him. Doyle put his arms around him and simply held on, content with just that and Bodie's mouth.

Bodie broke the kiss, but he didn't pull away, his weight heavy on Doyle. "Is this all right?" he whispered. "Is—"

"It's beautiful." Doyle stroked Bodie's back, and pushed up against him, sliding his cock against Bodie's, feeling the slow start of arousal.

Bodie kissed the side of Doyle's mouth, then worked his way down Doyle's neck, nipping and licking. Bodie was marking him, Doyle thought, and didn't care. They had two days, and they belonged to each other.

"Was going to tell you," Bodie muttered into Doyle's neck.

"Were you?" Doyle caught his breath as Bodie found and rubbed his nipple. "That's good." He closed his eyes.

"You're not paying attention, Four-five." There was a laugh in Bodie's voice that Doyle was glad to hear.

"Oh, but I am." His body was firing like slow rolling thunder. He moved against Bodie, and felt the answering shudder all through Bodie's body. Bodie put his hands on Doyle's face.

"I'm trying to tell you, Ray."

He opened his eyes and knew Bodie was looking down at him. He didn't need light to understand Bodie's expression. Something twisted inside him, like a sharp pain turned to pleasure. He'd never made love with anyone he knew as well as he knew Bodie. He'd never made love as he understood it now. He linked his arms around Bodie's shoulders and kissed him. Their bodies moved together, in sync in bed as they were in the field, automatically adjusting and balancing their needs.

Bodie pulled his mouth from Doyle's. "Ray." He buried his face in Doyle's neck, and Doyle felt the heat of Bodie's tongue at the same time as he felt the heat of his coming. He cried out and came himself in a long pulse that drained him of energy.

"Convinced?" Doyle wasn't surprised his voice was a croak.

"Could be." Bodie slid off Doyle, but stayed close against him. "With repetition."

"Yeah." Doyle tried to wave his hand, but didn't succeed. "You go ahead. I'm going to kip."

"Not so much fun alone."

Doyle eyed him briefly. "Now that I would like to see."

"Voyeur." There was a pause while Bodie pulled the duvet up over them both, then put his arm across Doyle's stomach as he settled down again. "Ray?" Bodie's voice was tentative.

Doyle stroked Bodie's arm. "What were you trying to tell me then, Three-seven? When you shouldn't have been able to think of anything, I might add."

Bodie nipped Doyle's shoulder. "I didn't want to lie to you any more. At the bank. I was going to tell you—who you were, who I was."

"Wasn't safe, though, was it? I might have talked."

"Yeah, but…."

Doyle shifted against Bodie. "You never would have."

"I was just about to! But Foster came—"

"No." Doyle yawned. "Never would have happened."

"Ray—"

He touched Bodie's mouth with his fingers. "You'll lie to me every time you think it'll keep me safe. I might not like it, but I know it." He rubbed Bodie's mouth with his thumb, then let his hand settle on Bodie's shoulder. "The thing is—and remember this, Bodie—I always know when you're lying."

"You don't. You—"

"I knew Williams was hiding something—and I wasn't wrong, was I?"

Bodie was quiet for some moments. "Bugger."

Doyle grinned.

"Do you reckon we can sleep now?" Bodie sounded plaintive.

"Oi, who started this, then?"

"Too knackered to work it out, mate." Bodie lay alongside him, his head near Doyle's. "But I'm not going anywhere, and I know who you are. Remember that, eh?"

Doyle nodded. His hand tightened briefly on Bodie before he closed his eyes. He felt the weight of Bodie's arm and he almost fancied he could hear Bodie's heartbeat. Constant. Honour-bound. He was Ray Doyle, and his partner was Bodie. That was all he ever needed to know.

He slept.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Pros Big Bang, September 2010


End file.
